The Last Breaths of Summer
by FuelledByEarlGreyTea
Summary: It's Satin's first day as Jon Snow's steward, and Satin seems to have more things in mind than just stoking firewood.


Nearly all of the Night's Watch was in uproar, and Bowen Marsh could be found ranting confusedly to anyone who would listen.

But as bewildered as everyone else may be, none was more so than Satin himself.

There were thousands other potential candidates for the personal steward of the Commander of the Night's Watch; men who were more skilled than him, who had been at the Watch for longer, who hadn't worked in a brothel in Oldtown. The last part was what most people, including Bowen Marsh, seemed to have the biggest issue with.

Not that Satin particularly cared what people like Bowen thought of him, really – but he couldn't help but wonder. Why _had_ Jon Snow picked him to be his personal steward? Did he genuinely think he was the best man for the job?

There was, of course, a more obvious explanation, one that was the origin of much whispering and some outright taunting throughout the Watch. Jon Snow had taken a former whore to be his personal steward; the implications were not hard to arrive at.

Satin didn't know what to think. There was a part of him – a very large part of him – that hoped Jon did have ulterior motives in appointing him. But there was another part of him that didn't want to get his hopes up falsely. After all, he didn't know if Jon's inclinations even went towards men, and well... he shouldn't assume things.

And so he came to Jon Snow's door with stifled expectations and hopes – to say he had none at all would be incorrect, as he could not quite put them out of his mind - and a neutral expression on his first day as the Lord Commander's steward, and knocked.

"Enter."

The door creaked open, Satin stepping inside. Jon was already dressed, wearing fewer furs than Satin, who was positively swathed in them. Satin was not used to the biting, harsh cold of the North, having lived in the South all his life. He was dreading the winter with all his soul, sometimes wondering if he could survive. But then, winter was not the most imminent threat to his life.

"Good morning, my lord," said Satin, his heart rate picking up as Jon stood up from his writing desk and turned to face him. If Jon did not hold the title as the most attractive man Satin had ever laid eyes on in his life, he was definitely in the top ten. Jon had lustrous deep brown hair that fell in soft waves not quite to his shoulders, and dark grey eyes that seemed to be almost black at first glance. Satin and Jon had similar colouring, in fact – although Satin's hair was a little darker and longer – but their features themselves were as different as warm and cold, hard and soft. Jon was ruggedly handsome, his features striking and masculine, whereas Satin could only be described as beautiful, with full sensual lips and soft, almost delicate features.

"Good morning, Satin," said Jon politely.

"Is there anything I can do for you, my lord?" Satin had to work exceptionally hard to keep an inviting note out of his voice.

Jon glanced towards the fireplace. "You could light that," he said, gesturing, "and afterwards you can polish and sharpen my sword, please."

Satin had to bite back a smile at the double entendre, as undoubtedly unintended as it may have been, and bent down to light the fire. As he turned around to add a small piece of wood to the fire, Jon saw a smirk creeping its way across Satin's face.

"What is it?" he asked.

Satin bit down on his lower lip, hard. "Nothing, my lord." He didn't even know why he was so amused. Objectively, it wasn't even that funny, yet for some reason he felt an overwhelming desire to laugh. Perhaps it was because he was trying to fight back his desire for Jon himself, and his other inhibitions had gone haywire. Having a tendency to laugh at inopportune moments always had been one of Satin's greatest weaknesses, especially when aroused. It was quite a nuisance.

"I've said something to amuse you."

"No, no my lord, you haven't, I'm just... I'm just remembering a funny joke." Satin hastily grabbed Jon's sword and began striking a whetstone against it, his eyes firmly on the weapon in front of him and not its owner, who was currently leaning against the wall and frowning slightly at his new steward.

"Well, share it with me then, don't keep it all to yourself."

Satin wished Jon had just let it go. If he hadn't kept bringing it up all the time, Satin would have stopped smirking a long time ago. _Damn the Lord Commander! I'll just tell him and get it over with._

"It's not even that funny," said Satin, "it's just, 'polish my sword' has more than one meaning." He risked a glance up at his Commander, who was staring at him with an utterly impassive expression. "I told you it wasn't funny," muttered Satin, holding the sword up for inspection and then going back to sharpening it. When Jon was still silent after a few moments, Satin looked up again. "Is there something the matter, my lord? I haven't offended you?"

"No," said Jon quickly. "I'm just..."

"Considering the second meaning after all?"

Jon started, and stared at him in shock. Satin gave him a coy smile and went back to his work. Finally, Jon said, "No, I-I will not break my vows."

"There's nothing in the vows about that, my lord," pointed out Satin. "It says not to take any wives or father any children. I'm not a woman, and I can't bear any children."

"Yes... yes, I suppose you're right..."

Satin sheathed the sword with a flourish, and said, "I've finished, my lord. Is there anything else you require? Anything at all?"

Jon swallowed audibly. "You know I didn't... I didn't take you as my personal steward for that reason, no matter what people have said –"

"I know that, my lord. Do you think I feel duty-bound to ask you? Is that why you hesitate?"

"Well, I... yes." Satin had never seen Jon look so flustered before; he always seemed so commanding, so solemn, so serious. It was rather endearing.

Satin took a step forward. "I can assure you, my lord, that I'm not doing this out of a sense of duty. I've had enough of that in my life. I'm asking you because I wish it."

To which Jon merely replied, "Please stop calling me 'my lord.'"

"It does not please you?"

"It isn't necessary, in here at least."

Satin continued to advance upon Jon, until they were practically nose to nose. Satin's hand went to Jon's tunic, his finger tracing up and down his chest, the barest hint of a promise of what might be to come. "So?" asked Satin. "Do you want to?"

With an almost animalistic growl, Jon drove Satin backwards and threw him onto the bed, where the steward lay, sprawled and dazed, as Jon straddled him and kissed him passionately. Satin wrapped his legs around Jon's hips, his hand sliding up the back of Jon's tunic. Their furs had been somehow discarded already – Jon must have slipped Satin's off and thrown his own off before throwing him to the bed – and their kiss was broken temporarily as they ripped each other's tunics off, followed by their breeches.

"If someone walks in now, I swear to the gods –" gasped Jon.

"Who cares? Let them," whispered Satin. He reached down and stroked Jon's cock, slowly, watching Jon's mouth fall open and a small, delicious moan escape him. "Would you like to fuck me," he murmured into his Commander's ear, "or should I fuck you?"

"You... you fuck me," responded Jon, bucking his hips as Satin's pace increased. After Jon's fleeting display of dominance in throwing Satin on the bed, Jon seemed all too happy to submit to Satin's ministrations. "Please, please, I need you, I –"

Satin had rolled over and pinned Jon beneath him before he could finish the sentence, his hand never leaving the other's cock. "How long have you yearned for this?" asked Satin in a low voice, running his thumb over the head of Jon's cock. "How long have you stared at me, wanting, _needing?"_ With a final jerk of Satin's hand, Jon spilled his seed over Satin's stomach with a cry.

Achingly hard, Satin pushed Jon off him and positioned him on his hands and knees, grabbing for a jar of oil on the bedside table. _Is that Jon's? When did he get it? Was he expecting this after all? Is it for emergencies?_ He twisted the top off, breaking the seal: it had never been used before.

"I want to see your face," whispered Jon. "Does it have to be this position?"

"This is the position that hurts the least," said Satin matter-of-factly, pouring the fragrant oil into his palm. "And it is your first time, isn't it?"

Jon turned his head to look at him, a blush dusting his cheeks. "How did you..."

"I just knew." Satin slid an oil-slicked finger into Jon's entrance, and Jon arched his back, a loud moan escaping him.

"I hope that isn't your cock," he said.

Satin gave him a very light slap on his arse. "Cheeky," Satin reprimanded, inserting another finger.

Groaning, Jon said, "Just get on with it, please –"

"I have to prepare you, you impatient boy –"

"You have!"

"Not enough!"

"There's oil, isn't there? It will be fine, just _do it, fuck me, please –"_ The desperation in Jon's voice threatened to push Satin over the edge, and after Satin made sure enough oil coated his cock, he pushed himself slowly into him, reaching a hand around to caress Jon's chest, a finger running over his nipple.

"Does it hurt?" asked Satin softly.

"No, no, it's wonderful," moaned Jon. "More, Satin –"

Satin had been trying to hold back for Jon's benefit, so that he didn't hurt him, but with Jon's urging and desperation and _demands,_ Satin couldn't help going faster and faster until he was all but pounding Jon into the mattress, Jon's hands gripping the bedsheets in white-knuckled fists, and all the while pleading for more, more, _more._

"Jon," gasped Satin, "Jon, I'm going to come –" He came inside him, moaning Jon's name, as Jon released his own seed over the sheets, unable to muffle a scream of pleasure. Panting, Satin slipped out of Jon, and they shuffled under the duvet together, Satin propping himself up on an elbow to stare at Jon. Jon's hard, handsome beauty was softened by the lingering look of rapture on his face, his mouth half open, eyes half-lidded. He peered at Satin blearily, smiling.

"That was... that was wonderful," he murmured, his arm snaking around Satin's waist and pulling him closer. They lay chest-to-chest, just looking at each other in contented silence for a moment. Jon kissed Satin softly on the forehead. "You're a delight, Satin."

"You weren't half bad yourself," grinned Satin. "One of the best I've had."

Jon idly ran his fingers through Satin's night-dark curls, and Satin closed his eyes, leaning his head on Jon's shoulder. They both knew that this wouldn't, _couldn't_ be the last time that they did this – but they also both knew that their days were numbered. On the Wall, you never knew when your life would come to an end, when your companions would be struck down. Now, curled up with Jon in the same bed, a post-coital haze hanging over them both, Satin could indulge the illusion that things would stay like this forever. In other circumstances, in another life, perhaps they could grow old like this. Perhaps, against all odds, they could do so in this one. Perhaps, perhaps.

But summer would not last forever. Winter was coming.

 _But not yet,_ thought Satin as Jon's arms tightened around him, the warmth of his lover embracing him like a cocoon, like safety, like home. _By the Gods, not yet._


End file.
